My Own Triggers

What Coparenting Taught Me About My Own Triggers

Nobody tells you that coparenting is basically a masterclass in meeting yourself. The unhealed, unfiltered, 2-AM-drafting-a-text version of yourself.

Here's what I mean. In the beginning, every message set me off. A late pickup wasn't a late pickup — it was disrespect. A forgotten permission slip wasn't forgetfulness — it was proof of everything. I was reacting to the present like it was the past, and I didn't even know I was doing it.

Then one day I caught myself mid-spiral over a text that literally just said “ok.” Just “ok.” And I thought: Tabbitha. Babe. This is not about “ok.”

That's when I started doing the work — the real work, not the bubble-bath kind. I started asking: what am I actually feeling right now? And the answer was almost never about the text. It was about feeling powerless. Unheard. Like my kids' wellbeing was in someone else's hands and I couldn't control it.

Here's the uncomfortable truth coparenting taught me: my triggers were MINE. The other person didn't install them. They just kept pressing them, and I kept handing over the remote.

So I took the remote back. Not all at once — I'm not a montage, I'm a work in progress. But message by message, I started responding instead of reacting. Logistics instead of litigation. “Noted, thanks” instead of a novel.

I'm not saying I'm zen now. I'm saying I'm aware now, and aware is the whole ballgame. You can't change a pattern you can't see.

This is the work I do with women now — not because I have it figured out, but because I've lived it. The triggers don't disappear. You just stop letting them drive.

Coparents: what's the most ridiculous thing that ever set you off, that you can laugh about now? Mine was “ok.” Just... “ok.”